


An Abundance of Holmeses

by ElizabethDurham



Series: A Trio of Holmeses [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethDurham/pseuds/ElizabethDurham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q and Bond are moving in together. Where? Where better than down the hall from Q's elder brother, Sherlock Holmes and his partner John Watson? Sherlock, needless to say, has rather an aversion to the idea, to Q and Bond in general, and to the entire notion of someone he is actually required to interact with living in such close proximity. However, when Sebastian Moran's people mistake Q for Sherlock and John for Q, things become a bit more complicated, and Bond wishes he'd perhaps chosen a more...normal family.</p><p>Sequel to Look at Me, though can be read alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Abundance of Holmeses

“Q?”  
“Bond, I’m not going first.”  
Bond laughed, picking Q’s special scrabble mug out of its carful tissue-paper packing and tossing it nonchalantly at the quartermaster’s head. Q squeaked, reaching out his lanky limbs to grab at the scrap of ceramic. He caught it a foot above the ground, hanging there, one leg in the air, both hands out like a cushion, a sigh trembling from his lips,  
“Bond,” he muttered, “I can shut down your credit card, disable your security card, attach a remote detonation device to each and every gun you check out, and ensure that you never, ever get yourself an exploding pen. Now. Need I repeat myself? Don’t. Touch. My. Mug.”  
Bond just grinned, unpacking the rest of his lover’s extensive tea mug collection, everything from a lord of the rings mug depicting a beheaded orc, to a ‘hungry little caterpillar,’ cup.  
“Relax, Q. Is there a crack in your mug? No. And anyways, I think I’m entitled to act as I like, if I’m going to be the one to tell your brother the news.”  
Q lowered his mug gently to the floor, leaving it standing in the center of the room like a talisman.  
“Some things are sacred, Bond. That is one of them. Now please, if you will, stop arguing and just drop this by my brother’s door.”  
The slim man picked up a white card, bearing Q’s own clinically impersonal handwriting in black ink. Bond took it, reading the short, equally impersonal message with a snort:  
Sherlock: Bond and I have leased the flat below you. If any psychopaths bother me, I will direct them upstairs. –Q.  
“That’s it?”  
“That’s what?” Q looked up from his collection of hard drives, packed just as carefully as his ceramic cup. Bond rolled his eyes,  
“Never mind. Just outside the door?”  
“Yes,” Q muttered distractedly, already busy hooking each drive up to his computer and checking for any faults caused in transit, “Sherlock’ll see it wherever you put it anyways.”  
Bond smiled, shaking his head before mounting the stairs with easy grace in search of his lover’s brother. It wasn’t hard to find the flat; in a building with only three apartments, you could only get so lost. Despite Q’s words, he was careful to place the letter in easy view of anyone coming up the steps, dreading the idea of the note going astray and the subsequent possibility that he would have to talk to Q’s brother in person. He had met the detective once before; there were few people who made 007 nervous, but Sherlock Holmes could just about do it.  
“Did you leave it?”  
“Yes”  
“Did he get it?”  
“Calm down, Q. I don’t know. As per your instructions, I left the letter on his doorstep. If you can call that a letter,” Bond replied, making a start on his own possessions, packed in a whopping five boxes as opposed to Q’s 39. Bond had never been one for kick nacs or personal keepsakes, except one. As he reached the bottom of the first box, his fingers met familiar ceramic. He drew out the shining bulldog with a smile, staring at it for a moment with equal parts fondness and revulsion before giving it pride of place on tier new bookshelf. Q was quickly filling up the other 99% of it with geek paraphernalia, novels, computers disguised as books, and a few books about computers. As if Q had ever needed help with his beloved binary.  
“Thanks, James,” Q effused, “sorry, I’m just a bit…nervous. Sherlock’s always been a bit prone to what Mycroft calls ‘childish tantrums.’”  
Bond grinned, “And you think the prospect of his little brother moving in downstairs would be enough to set off one of these ‘tantrums?’ such a loving family you have.”  
Q’s mouth quirked up on one side in a half-smile,  
“Wait until you meet Mycroft. At least Sherlock doesn’t have a bloody fascination with playing god.”  
“You’ve never told me much about Mycroft,” Bond pointed out, understandably curious, “am I allowed to ask why?”  
Q snorted, “Bond, the phrase, ‘you don’t want to know,’ was never better applied. Trust me.”  
And Bond did. Unconditionally. Then again, Bond couldn’t help thinking evilly; sometimes the boy genius didn’t really know what was best for him. Sometimes, he forgot all about the more…amusing things in life. And sometimes, just sometimes, Bond couldn’t help but give the quartermaster a little…push in the right direction.  
Leaving the bulldog alone on its shelf, soon to be joined by Q’s insurmountable collections of stuff, Bond analyzed the room, and Q’s position in it, finally deciding on the couch the quartermaster stood before as his best mode of attack. He sidled over to the beige-upholstered modern structure, lying back until he was spread-eagled across its length, legs crossed in the air over the armrest. If he just extended his arm a tad –  
“James, get off,” Q didn’t even look up from his tangled mess of computer cords as Bond’s hand slid around his leg, just above the knee, “I’m working.”  
“Working?” Bond asked, his voice husky, grip tightening on his lover’s skinny thigh, wondering idly why Q refused to wear anything better quality than Gap sale items.  
“Yes, Bond, working,” Q enunciated each syllable, “that thing normal people do in between playing?”  
“Seems awfully dull,” Bond muttered, allowing his fingers to jump up another three inches of Q’s leg. Q’s breath hitched, but he did his best to ignore it, not an easy task,  
“Bond, are you trying to get me to murder you?”  
“I’d like to see you try,” Bond chuckled, “it might be amusing, if nothing else.”  
Q sighed, looking from his lover to the mass of cables in his hands that was the physical manifestation of his mounting to do list,  
“Amusing. Is that all you see in life? Unlike you, I actually have things to do today. I have to connect the Internet security protocols, establish a secure link with MI6, check up on Mycroft’s – Mycroft’s – “ he stuttered, as Bond squeezed lightly. Q moaned, accidentally dropping his pile of cords to the floor,  
“Bond. Not helping,” He growled, stooping to retrieve them, glad of the excuse to dislodge the sneaking hand on his leg. He looked for a moment at 007 agent, spread out in his usual formal suit, lying on the sofa with a wicked grin on his face, then he looked at his wires. Fun and work.  
Work won.  
He settled himself cross-legged on the carpet, sneaking over a bit so Bond could bury his strong fingers in his hair if he so desired, and began sorting through the stack, dividing the seemingly identical cables into three different piles, the distinctions between which were utterly lost on Bond. They sat like that for a good ten minutes, Bond lightly stroking Q’s hair, Q trying, and failing, to concentrate on the binary algorithm he was working on in his head. Twenty minutes, and Bond got up, unpacking another two of his boxes to reveal a weapons stash to make any soldier proud. Spreading out his toys on the sofa, he sat above his quartermaster, cleaning, checking, and cataloging each in turn, making sure they had all survived the move intact.  
Half an hour after Bond left Q’s note at Sherlock Holmes’s door, the pair heard the front door slam, and the sound of footsteps re-tracing Bond’s path upstairs resounded around the room. Q froze. Bond’s hand strayed to his favorite handgun.  
“Q,” he asked, “what form do your brother’s tantrums usually take?”  
“Why do want to know?” Q whispered.  
“Should I find the extra bullets for my pistol?”  
Q was about to say something that sounded like, ‘not necessary,’ when a shout and the pounding of running feet drowned out any attempts at conversation. An equally loud pounding knock christened their door, and Bond looked over to see Q grimace.  
“I’ll get that,” Q muttered, “Bond, if you by any chance have a tranquilizing dart in that arsonist’s kit of yours, I’d get it out.” And with that remark, the quartermaster rose, a touch reluctantly, and began unbolting the door, a process that, without the override voice command designed for emergencies, took 37 seconds on average. Q had counted. By the time he had unlocked and unchained the door, Sherlock Holmes was practically fuming with indignation, and John, standing n the shadow behind the towering detective, was lost in the other’s fury.  
“Quinten!” he began, barging into the room in a towering temper, looming over his littler brother like a giant, “Quinten, this is insane! Have you lost any and all capacity for rational thinking? What in god’s name do you hope to accomplish by your idiocy?”  
Q waited for a lull in Sherlock’s rapid-fire speech, cutting in when he stopped for breath:  
“Sherlock, calm down for a moment and think. You knew 221C was going to be let out sometime. Your landlady could hardly leave it derelict for long. And who better to fill the vacancy if not me and Bond?”  
“Oh, defiantly,” Sherlock had perfected sarcasm to an art, “what could possibly go wrong with putting you, I, and an innocent land lady of Brittan together in the same building?”  
“What?” Q crossed his arms. He was asking for it, he knew, but in all honesty, he couldn’t think of his brother’s current tantrum as anything but a severe over-reaction. He had known, of course, that Sherlock wouldn’t take well to what he would see as an attempt to invade his privacy, but could even Sherlock come up with a valid argument to keep them out?  
Then again, it didn’t do to underestimate the world’s only consulting detective:  
“Quinten, must I be the only one with a working brain here? I attract disgruntled criminals like flies to honey, not to mention the occasional psychopathic serial killer or criminal under lord. You are no doubt the target of many vengeful ex-MI6 agents as well as those individuals your little hacking obsession has made fools of. As for Mr. Bond, the number of people after his blood could fill an encyclopedia. What do you think would happen if we were to unite us all under one roof? Mycroft should just blow this whole place to smithereens right now and save the world some bother.”  
Sherlock ended in a typical Sherlock-esque huff, crossing his arms and pouting slightly, his already rather effeminate lower lip rendered almost astonishingly so by his annoyance. Q opened his mouth to say something, but John Watson, circling around to lay a hand on Sherlock’s arm, got there first,  
“Sherlock,” his voice was calm, soothing, much like a rider to a spooked horse, “this is your brother we’re talking about. I’ve seen you walk into traps that promise certain death any number of times. Of the two options, I don’t think this is the one to complain about.”  
Sherlock stopped pouting. When he rounded on John, it was with but a fraction of his normal fire,  
“It’s not just that, John! When I throw myself into danger, it’s just me. It’s my life to waste or use as I see fit. With Quinten and his mastiff in the same house, the number of psychopaths visiting 221 will most likely increase by – “  
“By a factor of three, Sherlock, if I have the numbers right.” Q had re-entered the conversation. And, just as you should never underestimate the only consulting detective, only a fool underestimates the youngest leader of Q branch MI6 had ever known, “Between my enemies and Bond’s, the risk factor increases by a factor of three. However, we have M’s approval to live here, not only in spite of you, but because of you. Do you know why?” Q asked. Sherlock scowled.  
“Yes, the risk factor may be greater, but by combining the risk, we also can combine the protections. TO begin with, there are Mycroft’s little intrusions.”  
“Don’t you dare drag Mycroft into this,” Sherlock warned. Q waved him away, continuing,  
“Then there’s Mycroft’s general safety precautions he’s installed in the house. Combine that with what MI6 will supply, and technologically, I doubt there’s a better protected residential house in all of Brittan.” Sherlock opened his mouth to argue. Q raised a single finger to silence him, and John’s touch on Sherlock’s arm convinced the taller man to do so.  
“Now that we have that covered, there are the people in this building. We are both Holmes brothers, Sherlock. I can beat anything and anyone in cyberspace. You can beat anything and anyone in the real world arena. Against both of us, I doubt there’s a person England who could come upon us unawares. Then, of course, there are John and James. You’d be hard-put to find a pair of shooters as good as these. And as for Bond, well, let’s just say he has the physical arena well covered. Now, tell me Sherlock, how exactly can you think that our installment in this building makes life any less safe for you, us, or Dr. Watson?”  
Q always felt a thrill at beating one of his brothers. At anything. As he watched Sherlock’s mouth open and close soundlessly, he felt a little glow of pleasure spreading through him. He had won. Sherlock would never debase logic for the sake of one of his petty feuds. He may not like it, but Q’s point was, logically, the better. That didn’t mean he had to like it.  
Q didn’t even bother to follow as his older brother’s coat tails whipped out of the door.  
“Sorry about him,” John apologized, in a tone that spoke of many, many occasions where the smaller man had stayed behind for the sake of the black-coated detective who spun out of the room in a huff whenever he felt he was loosing, “he’s just a bit tense, what with the current case, and Moran re-appearing from the dead. He’s taken it hard.”  
Q nodded, understanding, and even feeling a bit sorry for Sherlock. He had hunted Moran mercilessly through at least three countries, chasing him down until he had he felt it safe to return to society. When Moran had suddenly re-surfaced in Iran, Sherlock had sulked for five days, a personal record. He honestly didn’t know how John had coped.  
“I understand, John. He doesn’t like people butting in. But sometimes a firm hand is best with Sherlock, if you know what I mean,” Q smiled at the retired army doctor, hoping to convey some of the gratitude he felt towards the smaller man that Sherlock had someone so loyal to rely on.  
John just nodded, reaching out to shake Q’s hand,  
“Pleasure to meet you, Quinten. I would introduce myself, but Sherlock assured me you’d already have my life’s story through the Internet. We’ll bring around cake and something alcoholic sometime. It’ll do Sherlock good to be civil for once.” Quartermaster and doctor shared a smile. John held out a hand to Bond, who had stood by the couch throughout the entire conversation, watching warily as his lover’s voice rose for the first time he could remember.  
“John Watson. James Bond, I take it? We were in the same training base. Not that you’d remember. How many years has it been since then?” he smiled slightly, adding, “It’s been a long old fight, hasn’t it? But you’re still fighting.”  
Bond shook the offered hand more warmly than he meant to. Now that John mentioned it, he did vaguely remember one of the younger recruits, a doctor, by that name. If nothing else, he was a military man, and, by the sound of it, a good one at that. It would be nice to have someone around who understood the love of duty to queen and country.  
“James Bond. And I stopped fighting a long time ago. Now I’m just hanging on for dear life.” The two military men, two old soldiers who had seen wars come and go, grinned slightly, and found they understood each other.  
“Alright then,” John waved a hand, backing up to the door, “cheers, you guys. I had better run after mine, or he’ll be sulking by the time I can get to him. Wonderful to meet you both, as I said, we’ll have to get acquainted sometime later.” And with that, he closed the door, stamping up the steps in the wake of Sherlock Holmes.  
Q sighed as Watson left, returning to his cords with a great deal less energy than before. It had not gone better than he had hoped, but neither had it been worse. Sherlock was Sherlock, and that would never change.  
“Well, that was interesting,” Bond, commented, packing away his weapons one by one, with the care Q used on his computers, “I like the soldier fellow. John, wasn’t it?”  
“Yes,” Q murmured, “John Watson. Mycroft told me he had been good for Sherlock, but I never dared expect that. I honestly don’t know how he does it. I lived in the same house with Sherlock for twelve years, and I could never do what John does for him.”  
“Don’t take it too hard,” Bond consoled Q, reaching down to massage his shoulders, brushing away the tangled mop of black hair, “siblings are siblings.”  
“Hm, yes,” Q rubbed his eyes tiredly, dropping the wire he was holding and leaning into Bond’s comfortingly strong, sure hands. Bond smiled,  
“Time to play?” he teased, trailing his fingers along the quartermaster’s exposed neck. Q groaned, giving himself up to the agent’s ministrations.  
“God, yes. Gentle, though, Bond. None of your insanities tonight. I would like to be able to move tomorrow morning.” 

 

Q got up the next morning at eight o’clock, as per usual, leaving Bond still tangled in the sheets, snoring lightly. A quick shower, and a choice between two mustard-yellow cardigans, and Q was downstairs brewing his first cup of earl grey. That is, until he heard the distinct sound of a gun being cocked behind him. He sighed, taking a sip of his tea while he could and grimacing slightly as he found it terribly under brewed.  
“Are you going to shoot me?” he asked lazily, “If you’re looking for Bond, I’m not him. Do I look like a 007 agent to you?” Despite what he might have told Sherlock, Q had yet to be the butt of someone else’s revenge. Sure, plenty of people would have loved his head on a stick, but, unlike Bond and Sherlock, those who were in a position to hate Q never saw his face. They saw a computer virus or a bomb. They saw a sarcastic joke pop up on their screen a second before their hard drives dissolved in acid. If someone was pointing a gun at him, it was either because he had seriously neglected his security, or one of Bond’s many enemies was even further below the average intellect level.  
“We’re here for you, Mr. Holmes. Now kindly turn around and don’t you dare speak a word.” 

 

John Watson was still getting used to the novelty of waking up with Sherlock in his arms. After nearly two years without him, and a very awkward period where neither was entirely willing to confess more than strictly friendly relations with each other, it was a gift to crawl into bed with the detective every night, and wake up with his tussled head of brown-black curls each morning. Sometimes, John would wait for Sherlock to wake up so they could spend a bit of time enjoying themselves before breakfast, but today his tea was calling him, so he got up, struggled into the shower, struggled out and into a pair of trousers and a shirt, and finally into the kitchen, where he was met with something unsettlingly familiar pressed up against the back of his head. John sighed. Sometimes he did wish his lover were someone with less violent enemies.  
“Who is it this time?” he asked, in a tone that suggested he was simply asking about the weather.  
“Shut your mouth and turn around, Mr. Holmes.”

 

Sadly, being tied to a chair was not nearly as novel as an experience for Quinten Holmes as one might hope. At a very early age, he had learned to accept the occasional morning waking up in handcuffs, or tied to a miscellaneous piece of furniture while Sherlock made notes or Mycroft tried to pressure him into one of his games. Being tied to a chair with a gun pressed to his head, obviously mistaken for his second eldest brother was, however, a first for the young quartermaster.  
“What have you found on the whereabouts of Sebastian Moran?” the man with a rather unattractive bowl cut snarled. Q rolled his eyes, repeating what he had said to the last two questions,  
“I told you, I don’t know. I haven’t the faintest idea what my brother gets up to. He certainly doesn’t share his case file with me. Why don’t you check upstairs?”  
The second man, the one holding the gun, laughed derisively  
“Oh yes, your brother who just happens to live in the same building with you, who also happens to fit our description of black curly hair, blue eyes, pale skin, lanky, with perfection. Anything else we should know?” He was mocking Q. And Q had never responded well to insubordination.  
“Yes,” he responded briskly, “to begin with I do, in fact, have a brother who lives upstairs and who looks a great deal like me. He also has an army friend who is very good with a gun. My army friend is perhaps the bigger threat, though, if I may permit myself the vanity. He’s MI6. Special agent. Oh, and as for Moran? I havn’t really followed too closely, but just glancing at the file, I assume he’s in England again, London most likely, and somewhere in the south section, at a guess. And that’s just what I can get from a quick computer search. Imagine what my brother can do with all his time and energy devoted to the problem.” He grinned, perhaps enjoying needling the two intruders a bit more than was strictly necessary, but having too much fun to care.  
The first man looked at the second with a raised eyebrow that said clearly, ‘what do you think we should do.’ The second man shrugged. Q wondered briefly if he could wake Bond up somehow. He could almost hear the second man’s finger creaking on his trigger, and he knew at the slightest indication of a call for help, he would shoot without question. They had been sent to kill him, after all. The questioning was just a side note. Q sighed internally. He wished he had gotten to finish his earl grey. 

 

“Tell you precious M at MI6 that if she doesn’t stop prying, we’ll shoot her pretty little quartermaster in the head.”  
John frowned, looking up at that man with a split lip just beginning to heal, and two bodyguards as big and dumb as they could get. He hadn’t a clue who M was, and even less idea who this ‘Quartermaster,’ could be. Although…no, couldn’t possibly be…Q?  
“Excuse me,” he asked, thinking it might be in his best interests to be somewhat polite. At least to begin with, “who is ‘M?’ I can’t very well tell them if I don’t know who to tell, can I?”  
The man holding the gun growled,  
“Don’t play stupid, Q. I know who you are. I know M, and I know she listens to you. We are not people to be trifled with, do you understand? I know you’re supposed to be a genius, but – “ Whatever he was going to say was cut off as something that looked suspiciously like the fireplace poker Sherlock had bent out of shape in a fit of boredom impacted the side of his head, followed quickly by a flying fist. The man with the split lip swung his gun around, and John, knowing full well who was behind him, kicked out blindly at the gunman, his foot impacting the other man’s leg. The shot went wild, and Sherlock, for of course it was he, lashed out with a few quick jabs, giving the man a second split lip and a very bruised abdomen for his trouble.  
“Thanks, Sherlock,” John said, when the detective had removed the cartridges from the astonishing number of guns the two men had carried on their person, “what took you so long?” his weak attempt at a joke was met with a harsh, frowning mouth and eyes that had yet to calm from their fit of rage.  
“John,” he muttered, beginning to untie the army doctor, “please forgive me. It was unacceptable of me to allow this. It was me they were after.”  
The ropes were undone a moment later, but John didn’t move, instead bringing Sherlock’s face up to his and staring his lover in the eyes,  
“Sherlock,” he whispered, “don’t you ever, ever blame yourself. Do you hear me? I know the risks; I knew full well what I was getting myself into when this started. It is never, never your fault, do you understand?”  
Sherlock still looked miserable, but John fancied there was a touch less of the self-destructive fire in his eyes than before.  
“Yes, John,” he murmured, and John decided that was as good as he would get. 

 

Down below, James Bond blinked blearily, looking around for his quartermaster and, finding him conspicuously absent, sat up, rubbing his eyes until their flat came into focus. Plus, two voices.  
…Don’t play with us, Mr. Holmes. Tell us what we need to know, and we’ll leave now. Play with us too long, and we can’t guarantee your safety.”  
He heard Q sigh in exasperation, a child to a dull student:  
“What a joke. You two are obviously here to kill me; why else would you be so blatantly bare of masks? I could easily put your descriptions into my database of Moriarty’s known associates, and be much farther along than I was before. So, obviously, you plan to render me incapable of such action. You wouldn’t let me live even if I told you the answer to life.”  
Bond stopped listening. He got up, as quietly as he could, slipping on the nearest pair of pants and grabbing his handgun from the side table. From there, it was a simple staircase down into the main sitting room, which, from the volume and location of Q’s conversation, was where the men were holding the quartermaster.  
“You don’t know that,” continued Q’s captor.  
“Yes, actually, I do,” Q shot back, “although, come to think of it, when I look at the people between you and me, I do start to wonder just how you intend to kill me at all.”  
The man laughed, “people? I see exactly one thing between you and I, and that, my dear Mr. Holmes, is my gun.”  
“Hm,” Q mused lightly, hearing the telltale drag of Bond’s over-long pants against the rug, and, up above, the sound of someone else… “I might re-consider that, if I were you,” he advised.  
Bond had heard enough. He leapt down the stairs, taking in the situation in an instant: two bodyguards by the kitchen. Q tied to a chair nearest to Bond. Another man, obviously the leader, between the two points. Best course of action? One shot to the leader’s head, duck behind the revoltingly modern couch (bulletproof, of course) before picking off the bodyguards.  
007’s body took over. Years of training and experience zeroed down his focus to the man pointing a gun at one of the few people he cared for. He pulled the trigger. 

 

“John?” Sherlock’s voice, morose and dejected before, suddenly shot up a few octaves and a good deal more energy, “John, do you hear that?”  
John was, at the moment, slumped in his favorite armchair, rubbing his wrists lazily. At the detective’s words, he stopped, listening for a moment before he caught the slight sound of conversation below. He shrugged,  
“Conversation? Bond and Q are up, then.” He reached over, opening his paper and perusing the sports section, hand shaking slightly in the aftermath of being tied up and threatened. He had just finished the first article, something about an injured football player, when he noticed that Sherlock had gone into full alert mode, standing stock-still in the middle of the room, almost comical with his intense facial expression perched atop the dressing-gown clad figure.  
“What did I miss then,” John asked mildly, looking over his newspaper with one eyebrow cocked slightly.  
“Bond’s voice is lower than that. And Q hasn’t gotten to his second cup of earl grey. Something’s wrong.”  
And, with that rather cryptic parting remark, Sherlock shot out the door, quiet as a cat, and just about as fast. John, knowing better than to disagree with his partner, decided that, given Sherlock’s general lifestyle, it would be smart to stop by the table by the door and fish out his gun before following after the detective as quietly as possible. Which was, judging by the rather annoyed hiss emanating from the bottom of the steps, not nearly quiet enough. 

 

Bond didn’t consciously notice the other two men enter the room, just subconsciously cataloged the shapes and added them as additional targets. He didn’t check to see if his first shot had flown true; he was James Bond, checking would be superfluous. One down. Two bodyguards and two unknown, probably back-up, left to go.  
“Bond?” it was Q. Bond wanted to answer, to give his lover some assurance that he was unhurt, but if it gave away his position…  
“Bond. That’s probably enough hiding,” came a second voice, unfamiliar enough to make the agent’s hackles rise. One of the men who had come in late. He didn’t answer, just scooted over a few inches, gathering his strength to spring. Three. Two. One.  
He had listened carefully to the second voice, the one that had told him to stop hiding. He knew where the person must be. Bond wasn’t a 00 agent for nothing; he could shoot a target through the eye faster than almost any man alive.  
“Drop your gun!” he shouted, not even looking at his adversary’s face. That didn’t matter.  
“Bond, we’re not here to hurt you precious Quinten,” came a third voice, this one sounding immeasurably bored and superior. And familiar. Bond blinked, allowing his mind to win over instinct, taking in the scene before him.  
Q was still tied to his chair, looking even paler than usual. Sherlock Holmes was kneeling behind him, busy undoing the ropes that bound his younger brother. The two bodyguards were slumped, senseless, on the ground. And John Watson, the voice that Bond hadn’t recognized, was standing, in perfect military form, holding a gun pointed straight at Bond’s head, while Bond kept his own weapon trained on the army doctor. He lowered his arm. John did the same.  
“Well that was tedious,” Sherlock complained, helping Q to his feet and checking him over for cuts or bruises “I take it your security has developed a few faults?”  
Q snorted at his older brother,  
“My security? He wasn’t here for me. He thought I was you. Kept going on about Moran.”  
Sherlock blinked. Then grinned. He and John exchanged a look, then both burst out laughing.  
Bond sighed, holstering his gun and looking at two giggling men,  
“Would one of you kindly tell me what is so funny?” he demanded.  
Sherlock smirked,  
“It seems we’re both to blame. A man broke into our apartment this morning as well. He’s now enjoying a quiet rest tied to our kitchen chair, but the point is, he was looking for you. He had John trussed up and was demanding he talk to M.”  
Another giggle. This time, Q joined in. Bond just shook his head, dropping his gun nonchalantly on the coffee table and going to make himself coffee. Let the geniuses figure it out; it wasn’t his problem to deal with.  
A minute later, John joined him, asking first if he might trouble Bond for a coffee as well.  
In the sitting room, the two brothers were still laughing away, discussing the implications of their two intruders and the possible security faults that cold have led to such an occurrence.  
“Bloody mad,” Bond muttered to his cup, just as John sighed, “bloody hell.”

**Author's Note:**

> Depending on if people want, I might do a sequel with Q, Bond, Sherlock, and John hunting down Moran. Not sure yet.


End file.
